The Abandoned
by Galatea of Avalon
Summary: When Gala wakes up in a hostile castle, Marked and suffering the effects of amnesia, she knows nothing about who she is or why the inhabitants seem so wary of her. She has no choice but to accept the help of Aston, a charming stranger with unknown motives. With Aston as a guide, Gala must now reclaim her identity and start her new life as one of the Abandoned.
1. Awakening

"You wake up in a dimly lit room. Luckily the rising sun in the window allows you to see a simple meal placed nearby. You haven't eaten in days."

* * *

When I open my eyes, the only detail that I'm conscious of at first is relative darkness. There are no lit candles or lamps, but as my eyes adjust and my thoughts swim into focus the watery light of dawn allows me to see the food nearby. My stomach is twisting in hunger.

I regard the food suspiciously, but nothing about it reveals a clue as to who could have put it there and I'm too dizzy to think clearly now. Deciding that I'll die of starvation before I can get poisoned, I start demolishing the food.

It is fresher than I expect, the meat still warm and the water still cool. I stop myself just short of taking a bite out of the plate in desperation.

I'm still ravenous but it takes the edge off and my vision isn't fuzzy any longer so I stand up to look out the window to see if I recognize where I am.

My weary legs suggest protest at first, but are stable. I look out over a vast forest. I am several stories off the ground. The air is brisker than I dressed for, but not threateningly. Constant movement will edge out the discomfort. I am in an inside corner room and two castle walls stretch out along my peripherals. Long thin flags billow, too far to pick out detail.

I cross back to the door to check the lock and find out whether I'm being kept here or not. This door is locked, but old. The wood is starting to separate despite its iron rivets. As I examine the door, I hear the sound of a parcel sliding and a latch shutting from the other door. Upon turning around, I see a canvas wrapped parcel on the floor and retreating shadows under the door. The sun rises over the tops of the trees.

I turn around to examine the rest of the room now that my eyes have adjusted and the room is brighter, looking for other ways out of the room and what furniture is in it, before bending down to take the parcel. My room feels more like a hastily put together guest room than a jail cell. It is scarcely decorated. The bed I slept on was only a table with many blankets piled on it. There are several well-used candles around the room and a few empty racks suggest it may have been a supply room prior to my stay. The parcel is roughly the size and shape of a rucksack and weighs as if it were relatively full. I hear metal clinking as I lift. It is covered in thicker canvas, like a boat sail, wrapped around an order of objects.

I open the parcel, hoping to figure out who brought me here and to remember why I couldn't walk here myself. I pull back the flaps, revealing a light tunic. Inside are a healthy supply of dried meat, a compass, a canteen, and a dagger. Confirmed conviction: challenge accepted. They seem to think I know my path home. Wondering who would lock me in a room if they clearly intend for me to travel, it occurs to me that they may have been trying to keep something or someone else out while I slept. Before testing the second door, not knowing what's on the other side, I strip off the flimsy top I was wearing, hoping no one chooses that moment to come in and slightly wishing there were curtains. Before pulling the tunic on over my head, I notice how dirty I am and that my ribs are showing. I feel a little less exposed and warmer in the sturdy tunic, but I wish the blade were a little bigger. Stowing the discarded garment in the bag with the other supplies, I grip the dagger over-hand, ready to use, and test the lock on the second door.

The door is stiff, but open. On the other side is a long hallway with many arcs and doors that lead further into the castle on the right and many windows and archer slots facing out into the woods. The hallway is silent and empty. As I walk down the hallway, I can see through many of the arches the center square of the castle. However, my view is obscured by a line of silent guards facing out. Were they there just for me? Along their ranks stand a few normal men. In the distance, I can spy a few men on balconies watching me.

I freeze when I realize I'm being watched, but instantly my mind sums up the fact that I've been given food and supplies and placed in an unlocked room, meaning that if whoever put me there intended for me to die it would have happened already. Nevertheless, I step close beside an arch out of the view of the staring men, not being of a persuasion to trust men who make it a habit to sit and stare at people. I conceal the hand with the dagger inside my tunic, making it appear that I'm simply clutching my stomach, not willing to be without it but not wanting to approach a guard armed. I step as silently as possible behind one of the men in civilian clothing, reasoning him to be less likely to be armed or sympathetic to whichever ruling party may or may not be pissed off at me. Knowing that I'm giving up a running start if they turn to attack, I think of a way to alert them to my presence without getting a sword unsheathed in my neck, determined to figure out whether I'm the one being protected, why, and by whom. I clear my throat audibly, just out of swing range.

Sounds from the marketplace echo into the hallway. After a few minutes, I hear the guards start to stand restlessly. From down the hall, I hear the door to my previous room close and lock. Knowing I can't go back now, I approach one of the men in the line of guards and touch his shoulder, ready to parry a sword strike, intending to ask him what the hell is going on.

"Ma'am I'm sorry, this area is off-limits to the Abandoned. It would be in your best interest to head home." The guard repeats himself more adamantly, making no aggressive gesture, perhaps even growing unsteady. "Ma'am, I'm sorry! You cannot come past here! Please begin your journey home."

I hear him but my thoughts are elsewhere. Something he said has triggered something unpleasant. The Abandoned? I don't like that word. I don't know why, but it brings to mind a feeling of forgotten pain, like the memory of a cut, once so vivid. But he is clearly being made uncomfortable by my presence, and I know enough not to look for trouble where none is found. I relax the grip on my dagger, tucking it into my under wrappings before thanking him and moving on, trying to look unconcerned while I try to figure out where the hell home is supposed to be. My first instinct is to head to the marketplace and get lost in the confusion of bodies and voice, and to listen for what can be heard. But I can't get that word out of my head: Abandoned.

As I near the end of the hallway I see a set of stairs A brisk draft of fresh air is palpable now. The guards watch me move slowly down the hallway. The looks on their trained faces hardly hides their uncertainty of me, but a subdued one: I'm not the first they've seen. One is trying to focus through a sneezing fit. The guard next to him widening up to fill the gap. Uncomfortable with their staring and curiosity, and fed up with being the only one without any answers, I pick up my pace and march briskly down the steps. I'm irritated by the fact that my legs are still shaking. Weakness has always irritated me. I need to go find some more food and some answers. The updraft from the stairs whips my hair around my face as I come upon the scene below.

At the bottom, two guards wait to close the heavy wooden doors behind me. Fallen leaves curl around their feet and swirl at the bottom of the stairs. Soon it's only the three of us. My echoing footsteps on the stone don't mask the sound other guards left behind, beginning to stir and hesitantly resume normal duty. I look around, blinking in the morning sunlight and take stock of what's in front of me.

A well worn path stretches before me. Carts and horses have carved deep grooves in the soil. The trees are still mostly green, with highlights, freckles, and streaks of fiery rust. The wood is dense, but not imposingly dark. The trees have been cut back about 30 meters from the castle walls. There's no moat, but an earthen mound snakes the perimeter. Looking back, I'm outside the corner of the square castle. I can see back to where I stayed in the obtuse corner where a wing meets the square. I hadn't noticed the other rooms past my own before. The wing must have been designed to direct the attendants to the hallway I was in alone. The guards slave against the heavy doors. The main cart path that the foot path leads to just ahead turns clumsily to my right, towards the center of the main wall of the castle. A man's voice comes from behind me.

"You're smarter than the other ones. I've seen many, many people try to fight the guards, almost put me out of a job."

A man in slightly worn clothing is leaning against the side of the stone stairs, eating an apple. He uncrosses his legs and walks casually towards you. "Not that it pays much, or anything." He flicks the apple core. "But I'll never pass up a chance to help. Aston."

"You don't have to trust me, or accept my help, but if you're going more than a three days journey, you're not gonna make it with what they gave you." He nods down the road and tosses another apple in your direction.

I jump a step back, angry at myself for coming down the stairs and gawking like an idiot without realizing that he was behind me. My hand jumps to the little dagger again reflexively, but I don't draw. Of the thousand questions I have for the stranger, I blurt out the dumbest one: "How did you know they gave me anything?"

"Well, you're not the first. We find people like you all the time. And this is what we do. That whole hallway... the hallway you just came down. I'm the only one that seems to remember you're people." The apple hits the ground.

"If you want to go to the market, you have to go with me, and you have to stay with me; they won't let you in with the..." he motions to my neck "...unless you're with me."

I automatically look down and bring a hand to my neck, looking for what he was pointing at.

The skin between the two points of my collarbone has a circular mark. The roughness is akin to a fresh scar or burn. It is the tiniest bit sensitive. Aston does not react to my surprise, much as though he were used to such things. "Don't worry, I promise, you'll get in..." He presents both sides of both hands before slowly pulling the front collar of your tunic up to cover the mark. One of his hands is completely wrapped in a well-worn bandage. "But I can't promise to keep you safe."

I reach out and put a hand on his arm before he can walk away. It isn't like me to be this forward or to put my trust in a mysterious stranger, much less a man, but he's the only one who has offered me anyanswers or any help. I need to know.

"Aston, what is going on? I woke up this morning in a room I didn't recognize and nothing has made any sense since then. One of the guards called me something- the Abandoned. Tell me. What does that mean?" Why can't I shake the feeling that I don't want to know the answer, even as I ask the question?

Aston pulls on my hand to encourage me to walk with him. "There's not much to tell, but you're asking the only person who will tell. It happens all the time. We find people like you in the woods. Same spot. Same mark every time. After it started happening more regularly, they commissioned this hall for their stay. You all wake up after a week. Started to give people the spooks. People started to attack them. It got so out of hand. So the king ordered that the Abandoned be kept out of the market. Some of the Abandoned started to act strange, and people felt it was justified. I never did. I'd go mad too if I didn't remember anything. So, I have a special arrangement with the guards. Sometimes a walk in the market is enough to jog you into remembering where you need to go. Which I assume is home." Aston leads you towards the main gate of the castle along the road. "Again, I only assume. If you're set to go, it may not be advisable to risk the witch hunt...I'm sorry, I don't mean to scare you. Just been a while since a sane Abandoned actually used the door."

My head is swimming again and it isn't from hunger. So much to take in. Sane? Would I start acting strangely too? What happened to me? I allow myself to be led by his gentle but reassuringly firm grip on my hand, but I had just one more important question. "Why are you the only one who will talk about it? Why are you helping me at all? What do you get out of this- and how are you involved with us?" even as I said it, it felt strange to say "us" when I had only just found out that I belonged in any category. Finding out that I was... marked... like that, it was changing my thinking. I didn't like it.

My head takes a strong swim to the right. "Whoa...easy...you'll be dizzy for a bit." He pulls out another apple and offers it to you. "I'm just here to help. I guess as a warning, everyone else thinks you're cursed. I've...been convinced otherwise... but don't worry, you don't owe me, I'm not idealistic enough to think I'll see you again after today."

Idealistic? What did he mean by that? What does he expect is going to happen to me? I am aware enough to sense that there is a story hiding behind his words but the lightheadedness was getting worse and it's all I can do to keep from putting my whole weight against him entirely and to continue standing upright. I struggle through the haze to maintain the conversation and keep him talking. "Why am I so dizzy?" I hate even admitting out loud that I'm feeling weak but he's been kind enough to help and I'm not fooling anyone leaning on his arm this heavily as I sway.

"That's why we're going to sit. "

Aston sits me down next to him on the stairs leading into the main gate of the castle. "And you're going to eat this." Apple. "And I'm sorry, but I just don't know...I'm just here to help you on your way. What do you remember?" All of Aston's actions have a resonance that he's done all this many times before. As I sit there, I get a better chance to behold the man. He's not poorly dressed, but his clothes are far from new. His left hand presents the apple. My head is starting to slow its swimming as I sit on the stairs.

" I'd like you to take me to the market. I have no place else to go. I don't know where home is." I had first realized this when the guard told me to go home, but had ignored it at the time. Realizing that I didn't know where I was from had deeply unsettled me.

" Well then, I'm not allowed to buy anything myself, so here's your allowance."

He hands me a fairly generous portion of coins. "I've more if you need. If you're ready, welcome to Islingard." Aston stands and offers a hand to lead me in. People walking up and down the stairs pay no attention to the two of us as they head into and out of the marketplace. I wonder how they'd treat me if they knew I was Abandoned.

"I thought I was the one they wouldn't like. Why aren't you allowed to buy anything?"

"Part of the deal." Aston walks behind me as I approach the archway into the market. I see several capable guards checking each person entering. As we get closer, I see people are pulling the fronts of their tunics down to expose their collarbones. Aston points over my shoulder with his now partially unwrapped right hand. The guard on the right does not appear any more forgiving than the others. We file into line and Aston stands confidently, almost comfortingly close behind.

"Forgive me, my lady, this has been known to sting a bit."

The guard looks to me. Hesitantly, I pull the front of my tunic down and see the guard's trained eyes flicker for a split second. Before the guard moves a muscle, Aston reaches around me from behind and covers the Mark with his completely unwrapped right hand. The touch takes me by surprise. It does sting a bit, only like pressing onto a scab, to be expected with the light pressure Aston is applying to the wound. The guard straightens up a little and nods for us to enter. Aston guides me gently through the archway. Looking down, I catch a glimpse of a strange wound on the back of Aston's hand before he pulls it away. Perhaps a brand? He wraps it immediately.

My heart is beating hard, both from the anxiety of exposing the mark and the sudden unexpected contact. But a look to Aston shows he clearly does not share my awkwardness from the fleeting but relatively intimate pose. As expected, he's clearly done this before for others. But done what? "Aston, what did you just do?"

He secures the bandage back in place with a knot which he tightens with his teeth. Speaking through them, he answers simply, "I got you into the market."

The market is surprisingly bustling, considering how isolated the forest makes the castle seem. Islingard is well lit in the mid-day sun. Around the cobblestone market square is a series of shops and houses. On each balcony are guards and upper class men. I remember making eye-contact with a few of them as I was escorted out. The smell of animals, cooking meat, smelting metal, general hygiene, and rustic autumn fills the air.

He spits out a corner of the cloth that got bitten off by accident. "I used the special deal I made so I can help you. Now, I can't buy anything and you have to stay close to me. But other than that," he follows up his statement with a sweeping gesture, "Welcome to Islingard."


	2. The Marketplace

Allow me to introduce myself. Or, I should say, ourselves. I'm Gala, and the contributing author is Kanoa. We did something a little different with this story-this fic was written in a Dungeons and Dragons style format, back and forth between two authors. With Kanoa as DM, he sets up the quest and my character responds. He later takes on responsibility for Aston's character as well. Therefore, every other paragraph you see here was written by a different author. I have merged them together and changed the tense and perspective to form a strictly first-person narrative. (While I have tried to edit very carefully, if there's anywhere that I've missed and it says "you" or "your" when it should say "I", please let me know!)

The entire story thus far was written by being texted back and forth on a Gchat interface and an iPhone keypad, respectively. We've had a lot of fun writing our little literary "spar", and it has helped me while away many a soul-crushing hour at my former retail job in RadioShack. While we have enough material right now to keep us in updates for quite a few weeks, the story has not yet concluded and is still being written. We'll let you know when the updates catch up with the new material. Until then, please enjoy our story! – Gala & Kanoa

* * *

I stare wide eyed for a minute at the chaos and bustling activity of the market. I was perhaps hoping that I would immediately encounter the sight, smell or sound that would jog my memory, and felt foolish. Suddenly aware of Aston standing behind me and grinning, I decide that I should at least prepare for a journey, no matter that I don't know the destination. It suddenly occurs to me that what I want more than anything at that moment is just a strip of leather to tie back my long hair. Maybe I could find a better place to sheath my dagger as well. "Where can I find some leather?"

Aston points towards the center of the market. Near the center fountain there is a table with various skins and garments. To its right, a huskier woman is stretching a piece of leather over a stretching drum. Several leathers lay on the fountain rim behind her and over cables.

I approach the table, eyeing a display of small leather sheathes. I choose one with a thin strap and buckle, one that I can buckle onto a leg and keep concealed and handy. I go to pay for the sheath and ask for just a scrap of cord when I realize that the currency is unfamiliar to me. Does that mean that I'm originally not from this area? I ask the woman stretching leathers for the price and a cord. Her dialect is rather intimidating, like Aston's but much stronger.

"Te sheath'll be 7 gilce on de cordle be 2 pence." Eyeing your confusion, Aston points to the larger copper coins and nudges the smallest iron coins in your palm. "The brass coins are kilten... 'Sa fair price for a sharpening sheath, and she's not one to be negotiated with."

I hand over the coins that Aston has indicated and take my new sheath, taking a moment to breathe in the scent of new leather. I like that smell. Gratefully I bind my hair up and out of the way. I'll have time for a braid later maybe. I want to try on my new sheath but I don't really want to do it with Aston watching. Instead I ask him if the coins he's given me are only used within the kingdom or the city, and how far one might need to go to see a different currency.

"To the good sense of the king, we have our own currency, very clever. Most peasants don't understand currency exch-no matter. The office is back by-mind your Mark..." He carefully lifts your tunic by the shoulder as you tie your hair before checking briefly and subtly over his shoulder. "The most popular office is over back by the entrance where we came in. As with any bank, I doubt they'll let you just see currency upon asking, but you seem observant enough to see the currency exchanged. They'd have the highest variety, but the smaller offices would be more discrete. Any particular currency in mind?"

"I was thinking that if I recognized one of them, it might tell us where I come from. If these coins are only used in this kingdom, and I've never seen them, then I should at the least be preparing for a journey to the kingdom's border. That's all." Something else had just occurred to me. "I'm speaking the same language as you. Does that mean that I lived nearby?"

"Perhaps, but don't be mistaken, this currency is exclusive to this market and its brothers. We are in a rather small area, as far as the currency flies. If you're looking for cultural clues, also look for clothing and flags, every stand has one. This is one of the more diverse markets in the kingdom. While language isn't a very narrowing tell, it should bring hope that you're not from far. You haven't much by the ways of an accent." As I look around as he suggested I notice the small flags hung from a nail by the corner of each table or the post of each tent. Framed visions of leaves, trees, and animals confront me. Across the balconies, larger flags of Islingard, long triangular white with a silver border, hang. Several of the balcony dwellers have flags embroidered on a sash. "Would you prefer the larger or smaller banks?"

"Larger. That gives us the best chance to see one that's familiar to me."

"So be it. Maybe this'll come in handy, be discrete." Aston hands me a small glass cylinder: a spying glass. "Use it right, you may be able to make out some of the faces on the coins." As we walk back to the entrance, the guard we checked in with walks past, rotating his shift. At first he locks eyes with me but Aston's confident gaze draws then repels his.

The bank comes into view through the sea of people. It's cut into the wall of the castle, with some impressive iron bars between the keepers and the people. A small crowd has gathered, attempting to bargain and exchange for fair prices. Aston flanks me towards the right side of the window, away from the guarded arc.

I stand beside Aston, trying to appear as a merely casual observer as I watch the money change hands, feeling just a bit foolish, hoping I'm not wasting both our times. We hover for some time, watching the coins change hands and people bustling past, taking no notice of us. Just when I'm about to suggest we try something else, a small handful carried by a very old man catches my attention. I can't quite place it, but I feel something that is akin to recognition at the sight of the black and gold coins, just the vague stirrings of a memory. Taking notice of my reaction, Aston shuffles gently past and talks to the old man trying to exchange the coins. With some of the large Islingard coins, he exchanges for one of each of the coins, 5 in all. Aston returns briskly with a yell from the banker and pulls me in a sort of casual retreat under the nearest balcony, by a window out of the castle. The coins come in two colors: iron black and gold. Based on the size of the holes in the gold coins. they may as well be made of solid gold, with the kingdom smartly saving material. Both colors in small rings, both colors in half-dollar-sized rings, and a large iron disk with gold details. The details are organic and botanical, in swirls and rings around the faces of the coins. "Your coins, miss." Aston places the five coins in my hand for more intent inspection.

I accept the small handful of coins from a smiling Aston. As I take them, I am hit with a flood of familiar sensations. I recognize their shape and feel, how the different metals hold heat differently form the warmth of Aston's hand, and the dull clinking noise they make as they tumble together in my palm. I am hit with an unexpected feeling akin to nostalgia as I take a moment to look at them. They are the first thing that has felt normal to me all day. "Do you know where these come from?"

"I've only ever seen coins like this once before." He tumbles the largest of them over in his hands. "The plant designs aren't particularly useful, most castles are surrounded by dense forest and this just looks like various common vines and flowers." As he is speaking I notice some markings along the edge of the coin that I hadn't noticed before. The coins crafting information has been skillfully carved along the edge.

As I turn the coins around in my fingers, enjoying the way the sunlight burnishes the gold, I notice that they are in excellent condition, as though they didn't get handled very often, unlike the well worn handful that Aston had given me that had been polished smooth by many fingers. The inscriptions on these coins stood out in high relief. As I study them I notice that the very edges have been inscribed- the year, initials which must have belonged to the engraver, and a single word- Avalon. I point to the word and invite Aston to read the tiny script. "Does this word mean anything to you?"

Aston peers intently to where I am pointing. After a moment, "I cannot read those symbols...I only read English, Islindish, and proper Latin. It's a word?"

"You really can't read it? It says 'Avalon'." My mouth automatically takes shape to form the words written on the coin, and speaking them aloud I can tell that the word has a different sound altogether from the language I've been speaking with Aston.

"'Ovuloon?" Aston tries match my pronunciation. "Do you mean Avalon? The castle Avalon?"

"Is there a castle with that name?"

Aston breaks eye contact for a second, as if to gather himself. He sighs and scratches his head. "There used to be...It was either destroyed or disbanded about a year ago, I'm not sure which..."

"What does that mean? How do you not know which?" There's something he isn't telling me. I don't like it. Something about the name of that place has made him uncomfortable. But what does that mean for me? The castle is gone, but I know their coinage and speak their language. Which leads to the question I don't want to ask-was that my home? But he said it had been gone for a year. How long have I been away from home?

"I don't know what happened at the castle, some kind of riot or revolution against the lord... I only hear from rumours... The people there spread to other nearby castles. They're either assimilated or nomads now... That's why these coins are so rare, makes sense now... I just... Is that your home? ... If it is, I'm so sorry... Do you... are you remembering something now?"

I stare at the word again, trying to remember, waiting for a feeling or a sign or a spark of some memory, some sense of loss to tell me whether or not I had once belonged there. The people that may have recognized me-scattered. "The others... The ones you've helped already...Were they like me? Did they ever figure out where they came from? Or am I the only one who is lost?" I'm absolutely disgusted with myself, but I feel like I am biting back tears.

Aston's face shows his concern and sympathy. His voice is soft and honest, "A lot of them remember, yes, they just need a jolt. Some eventually set out without a destination… or risk settling down here... or it just becomes too much for them... Don't give up yet. What language is that? You can read and speak it, can't you? I know where the castle is... or was, but it's either abandoned or in ruins as far as I know...It's a start."

"Hey... you ok?" Aston puts a stabilizing and comforting hand on my shoulder.

What language am I speaking? I stare past him, not seeing the marketplace but seeing the words. For every word that I say there is another behind it in my head, ready for me without effort of conscious thought. I know the names for these things in the language that I saw on the coin. I open my mouth to speak. "Sina lammen ier sai iant ar' eller ier n'nir ya beth ta hyarya e' i' palurin. Sen yassen i' ins en' kalia nomin." Like water in a stream, the words form themselves in my head and flow out as easily as I breathe. I am only vaguely aware of the stares of those within earshot.

Aston is smiling at your revelation of language, but it's clear he has no idea what you said and is slightly mesmerized by the beauty of the language. He patiently waits to avoid interrupting your recall.

The look on Aston's face is as kind as always but I flush bright red at the attention and embarrassment for getting lost in a reverie like that. "I said, 'The words are ancient and there are few in the world who still speak them.'" I feel the need to be doing something with my hands, so to avoid Aston's stare I whip the leather cord out of my hair impatiently and hold it in my teeth as I start to braid. My hair nearly reaches the small of my back so the going is slow but my fingers know what to do and they fly as they ply together the long silky strands. The design is complex, with multiple smaller braids that reach my temple and either side of the crown of my head to meet at the nape of my neck. The result is functional as it keeps my hair out of my face and free from getting caught and pulled but was also clearly designed with form in mind.

Aston watches my braiding with approval. " You're remembering your culture. I'm glad. No disappointment of course, but I don't know your name, lady of Avalon." Aston takes the strip of leather from my mouth, ostensibly to allow me to speak. Noticing my discomfort, Aston guides us to a less populated area of the marketplace. He shows not an inch of impatience, he seems almost eager to explore what I've just remembered.

I smile. His ever-present courtesy has been exceptionally comforting to me. Hearing him address me so formally and politely takes much of my discomfort away. Lady of Avalon-I feel as though I've been addressed this way before. I walk towards a small fountain, hoping to check that my braid is straight since I did it from memory without looking. We pass a cart full of early autumn's first ripe apples-they are incredibly fragrant and I breathe in deeply, thinking of the ones Aston first offered me. These are small, round, and flecked with gold and russet. My favorites. I know that these are especially sweet, and not tart like the bigger green skinned ones I see scattered in baskets and barrels around the marketplace. Their name in the common language-Gala. This word's appearance in my head brings me up short in my tracks and Aston nearly bumps into me.

"Op! Sorry..." He realizes I'm locked in thought. "What is it?" Aston absent-mindedly hands my strip back to fasten my hair while he looks around for what the trigger may have been. He nods to the apple vendor as they roll the cart away.

"I know my name."

Aston squares up with me and offers his hand to ceremonially meet me.

"Gala. My name is Gala. Short for Galatea."

"Welcome to Islingard, Galatea of Avalon." Aston greets me excitedly. This is why he does this. "Your journey will take you three days north, then the closest castle will be another day west. Now that you remember your clothing preferences, you should celebrate with some warmer garb."

" Thank you for your welcome, Aston of Islingard." I respond with my deepest curtsy and most gracious smile. "Now, just when did I remember my clothing preferences?" I tie the remaining unbraided portions of my hair together low on the back of my neck, completing the look with which I am familiar.

A platonic and formal hand kiss and gladly meets me in response to my new confidence and comfort. "I just assumed you would pick something to compliment your hair."

"And what do you think might complement my hair?"

"Something equally warm and intricate. Come, let me introduce you to Eve, her woven shirt is all you'll ever need." Aston waves in the direction of the shop with a bow that puts my curtsy to shame. Laughing, I follow in the direction that he has indicated and enter the shop.

The tent is cool and, like the clothing, is skillfully woven cotton. Strands of the tightest woven and braided cotton I've ever seen is woven into intricate designs. A long sleeve shirt to my left is unbleached white with a sparse black and gold strand woven in, creating a gorgeous spiral pattern down the sleeves and torso. Surprisingly, most of the clothing in this shop seems to be fit for women. Aston embraces a short, fiery woman with a similarly natural weave of grey through her hair. "Wilcom dear. Aston, you always find the prettiest suitors." Aston has clearly heard this joke often but politely smiles.

I hide my embarrassment by stepping closer to the beautiful black and gold garment and admiring the well-made fabric. "You made these?" I ask. The elderly woman replies, "My mother does," and resumes weaving without missing a beat. Aston whispers, "She does, of course. I've never seen anything like it." Aston grabs a bottle of dye off the shelf and places it next to Eve.

"Thank you, dear. How'd the apples look today?"

"Looks like they'll be perfect tomorrow, love." The garments around me surprise in their use of color and the angle of the weave. Most pieces are a single weave from top to bottom. After a few minutes, Eve has a bowlful of the cotton weave, which shares its vessel with a gorgeous dusk blue dye. Eve looks at me, artist to subject, for a moment, then asks Aston a quiet question. As he reaches to grab a blood red bottle off the shelf he explains,

"She likes to turn people into a color. Looks like yours is going to be a purple...unless she's trying to throw me off." He grabs a yellow bottle just in case.

I watch her working, confused but fascinated. With one last glance at me she pours a spontaneous but artistically careful amount of red dye into the bowl. She asks Aston for the gold and laughs when he already has it. Then she asks him for a bowl of oil. "You're going to love this" he adds as he fetches it. She combines the gold and oil then adds it to the mixture. She reaches her hand in and with a swirl she hands the end to Aston, who walks it down the aisle of the store slowly. The inky strand is about 40 feet long after a full and careful extraction. Aston twists it as commanded and ties it above Eve, having gone down and back. Eve waves me away as if she doesn't want me to see it yet.

"She really likes you. See anything you like?"

At his question I start to browse through the garments in front of me, admiring patterns, reaching out and feeling the fabric. Some of them were much too fine for travel, clearly meant for festive occasions and the ease of town living-people who made their livings indoors and on paved streets. But there was a selection of clothes that would be suitable for a woman traveling. As I go to inspect them, a brightly colored robe catches my eye. It is highly ceremonial, the kind of thing worn on high feast days or when performing important sacraments. The robe had long, sweepingly wide sleeves with beautiful designs along the hems. The skirt of the dress was high waisted and pleated with a contrasting panel of fabric in the front that also made up the bodice, which rose to a modest height. It was form fitting throughout the waist and torso and opened up into a heavy, full skirt. The entire dress communicated an air of purity and dignity. It was beautiful. I knew that the sleeves would have small pockets discreetly sewn inside to allow for small vials or relics for different rites to be concealed until the appropriate time. As I stare, a single image flashes in my head-a woman with long dark hair, portions braided in a design like the one I now wore but more elaborate, in a dress like the one before me, one hand raised over a crying child in her mother's arms.

Aston is at my side. "Took her nine days to finish it. No one around here would use such a dress, it's not the most religious of castles, Islingard. I've long wondered why it was here and the only explanation is that it was a special order that no one came to pick up. Eve is in high demand for such vestments... Gala?... Galatea?..."

" Ve' er amin."

"I'm sorry, what's that now?" Eve also looks up in recognition of the language, but not in comprehension. I look up at Aston, surprised, then shake my head as if to dislodge the day dream. I hadn't even realized I wasn't answering him in the Common language. I haven't done that before.

"I'm so sorry, please don't mind me." I spare one last look at the dress, eyebrows furrowed, before moving on. I've probably frightened them. Aston has no reason to trust me and getting lost in staring fits and speaking a strange language isn't a good way to repay that trust or encourage it to continue. I quickly busy myself with the garments I had seen that seemed hard-wearing enough for travel. There was an outfit that I liked especially, a layered top of unbleached cotton, with a hooded and long sleeved shirt in the color of pale wheat. The front closed with a cord tied in a corset-laced style binding, as could the sleeves to keep them fitting tight against the cold or worn open for increased comfort and mobility. It was long, the hem ending maybe four or five inches above the knee. This gave the appearance of a skirted garment but allowed a woman to wear a pair of chaps or breeches that laced tightly against the legs and went to the knees and some linen or woolen leggings to wear under boots, similar to what riders wear. This gave all the mobility of pants without the immodesty of cross dressing. Over the looser hooded shirt there was a second layer, a sort of short vest that laced tightly closed and reached just under the ribs and bust, which was useful because it meant that one size fit all-even those with much less curvy figures, like my own. I had found that many of the other studier outfits were clearly built to accommodate the generally more busty and wide-hipped farm wives and daughters of the area. My own physique could more easily be described as "slight" by those being kind and "beanpole-like" by those who were not. I stand and inspect the garment, fingering the soft yet sturdy fabric.

Aston is washing his hands clean of dye in a bowl. Eve sees me inspecting the piece from across the tent and offers a private place in the back to try it on, a very trusting gesture, and resumes caring for the strand. She's about half way finished with it and appears to be drying it somehow. I thank her, and with a look to Aston to ensure that his attentions are occupied elsewhere, I take the bundle and go where Eve has indicated-a curtain hung up on the back corner, behind some stacks of cloth and unspun cotton. Once inside I groan-I'm not sure how I feel about there being nothing between a naked me and the outside world but a curtain. But she was nice enough to offer to let me try it on, so I grit my teeth and undress as quickly as possible, which doesn't take long since I'm only wearing the tunic I was given and the leggings I woke up in. As I put on the new clothes, (also as quickly as humanly possible,) I start to feel a change in my whole demeanor. I lace up the pants, leave the sleeves loose, and buckle the bodice together tightly over my chest and I instantly feel more capable and prepared, while wearing the unfamiliar loose-fitting tunic had made me feel exposed and unsure. I stretch my arms and legs, flexing my fingers and testing my recently weakened limbs. I feel more rejuvenated than even the food had made me feel. These clothes suited me. I was about to go outside to show Aston when I stopped short-my Mark. While the neckline was hardly risqué, it did not cover my collar bone to the neck, even laced up. Before starting to panic, I remember that I still have the shift that I woke up in inside my canvas bag. After a few rips, I have enough of the flimsy fabric for a makeshift scarf. I wrap it twice around my neck, making sure I'm covered, and let the ends trail behind my back. Once I'm satisfied that I won't be exposed, I take a steadying breath and step out from behind the curtain.

Eve is hurriedly wrapping fabric around a wooden bust, as if she were trying to prepare a surprise. As I step out, Eve catches sight of me and almost comically throws herself in front of the bust. Clearly she is trying to impress me. I smile. Aston comes out of the back with a large, very shallow bowl. "Gala, I've a bowl here so you can see your refl-" Aston stops short of walking into me. After a quick, respectful glance to the base of my neck, he straightens up to take me in. "Well! Looks like someone's feeling more back to their old self again! How does it feel?" Setting the bowl down, his hands work the perimeter of the clothing: rolling, pulling, and pinching the garments experimentally, but in the end seems very pleased with the fit. He glances backwards to Eve, who also seems very pleased. With a multi-lingual merchant's average proficiency, she remarks "she' lir 'vo [you look great]." Aston adds, "She's trying to get something prepared to show you. It won't be ready to wear, sadly, but something about you has inspired her next garment. She likes to show her muses the effects of their inspiration. The bowl is there if you want to see." He whispers: "If you want it you don't have to take it off, but do go back behind the curtain, for Eve's joy." Aston again steps away, back to a task.

I smile at his thoughtfulness of the woman's feelings, and acquiesce, bowl in hand. Back behind the curtain I remember that I haven't yet tried on my new sheath. Lifting the shirt hem just a few inches, I buckle it on my right thigh, where it won't be seen and can be easily and quickly accessed. For a woman traveling alone it could sometimes be beneficial to visibly carry a weapon, as it discourages others from thinking you a helpless target. However, it could also have the opposite effect on some men, seeing it as a challenge and assuming that a woman would not be trained in its use but taking advantage of the bluff. Better to appear non-threatening and unimportant, with the element of surprise available. I place the bowl on the ground and stand over it, glancing down at my reflection. The woman I see looking back at me has long dark hair, nearly black, the color that could be described as "burnt sepia". It has no natural waviness or body but cascades down my back as straight as an arrow. My skin is much paler than Aston's and even Eve's. Did I spend a lot of time indoors? Arched brows sit high on my forehead, giving my face a look of great solemnity. Do I really look that severe? I have a relatively short stature and an extremely slight and willowy build, not suitable for nearly any kind of physical work. I wonder at what my occupation might have been. Inspecting my hands, I see that they do not have calluses across the palms as a farmer might have had, but instead on my fingers. From holding a pen? Overall they are soft and equally pale, with long fingers. Inspecting further, the tips appear stained, with what could have been ink, or perhaps the sap from plants. Maybe I did live on a farm but was consigned to the kitchen because of my inadequate build. Taking in the entire picture, I try to become reacquainted with myself. Galatea of Avalon. Who was she? And who would she be now that there was no Avalon to return to? Thinking that enough time had passed to satisfy Eve, I once again venture out.

Eve is standing proudly behind the bust, which is not five feet from the curtain when I emerge. The fabric is not cut and stitched, but simply carefully folded and pinned to give the impression of the front view of the future garment. The sleeves are tight and slender, made with bleached wool, brilliantly white. The top comes together in almost a robe, or a gi front with overlapping panels, but the main feature of the article by far is the accenting thread. The middle is the center of the back bottom hem. From there it winds up the edges of the flaps, growing to about an inch thick. It thins rapidly as it rolls over the tops of both shoulders into a tight spiral around the arms. The spiral curls occasionally and changes direction. The thread itself (a thin strap) is in stark and brilliant contrast to the white. It is a deep but vibrant purple. Looking closer however, there is an unmistakable swirl of pine green right on the thread. "Oil and water don't mix" Aston commentates as you lean closer. There are a few spots along the thread that the colors do overlap or blend in a way that perfectly mimics your hair color. Eve is pleased with your reaction and speaks joyfully to Aston in the local language. He laughs as she talks. "She apologized for not having met you before having met you. And she offers you the clothes you're currently wearing for half of whatever coinage you are carrying." You become aware of Eve poking and prodding your outfit now. She produces a thick strand of soft cotton, complimentary in color, which she uses to replace your strip covering the mark. She does so carefully and secretly, showing no signs of the pre-warned freak out.

I look to Aston, beginning to panic as she unwinds the strip I've put there and replaces it with the strip in her hands. Did she already know about me? Aston gives me a reassuring look. She knows Aston very well, and would most likely know how he spends his time outside the shop. She also would have noticed such an alteration to her work. Right before Eve unwinds the last bit of strip, she checks around her, just in case. Upon seeing the Mark, she kisses her hand and gently places it over the Mark as she prepares to wrap the softer, more natural cloth around Gala.

My breathing starts to return to normal. From the stories Aston has been telling me, I was prepared to bolt-my mind was already planning escape routes. But Eve wasn't afraid or horrified-just as kind as before. I didn't know who to thank for my good luck in finding these two to help me-so I resolved to make sure I thanked Aston properly before I left. For some reason, the thought of leaving was weighing heavily on my mind, almost as though I was dreading the upcoming moment. But what was I searching for? The ruins of a place that might have once been my home? The place where Eve had put a hand to my neck was still warm. Aston, who was casually leaning to disguise being a lookout, has a few words with Eve in the local dialect, which Eve speaks much faster.

"Congratulations, it's yours. As far as I can tell, you're just lacking food supplies. There's only so far jerky can get you." He doesn't sound like he's rushing you, but is clearly goal oriented. It sounds like he's bidding farewell of Eve in Islindish as he gathers up your old garbs.

"What do I owe her?" I ask, feeling just a little guilty, since it was Aston's money in the first place. I sincerely hope I'm not taking advantage of his generosity, but I wouldn't be able to make the trip in just the light tunic and I had no money of my own and little chance of getting any. I hold out the handful of coins.

Aston smiles. "If you insist, she said half of whatever you're carrying. But if you're worrying about me, it's of no use to me. I cannot buy anything in the market anyway. The apple merchant knows I'm buying for Eve, but that's about it. I'm not even allowed to buy clothes from Eve!" A grand gesture to his ratty appearance. Now that I'm looking directly at it, I see it's been patched to hell and back, probably with scraps Eve is pitching. I look him up and down, seeing the faded patches at the elbows and knees, the holes and tears, the frayed corners. I suddenly feel very sad that he could be compassionate enough to clothe someone he doesn't know but cannot even do the same for himself. I suddenly wish I had something to offer him. Putting on the most serious face I could muster, I hold out the tattered scrap from my recently re-purposed shift. "Would you like a brand new scarf?"

Aston smiles, he's clearly not ashamed of his condition. "It'll suit me perfectly, my lady, thank you." He takes it and folds it ever so gently into his pocket to be used later. "So, Gala, what do you like to eat?"

I grin. "Apples, of course." They really were my favorite-I had always had a terrific weakness for sweet things. It was a coincidence that Aston had chosen this to share with me when he found me. It seems strange to me—and terrifically frustrating—that this tiny detail about myself I have retained, or instinctively understand, but the largest, most basic questions—my name, my home—would still seem hopelessly out of reach.

"But I'm afraid they're somewhat impractical for travel. I should really stock up on biscuits and the like..." I was glad he had accepted my gift, meant partly in jest, but I still wished there was something I could do for him in return for everything he had done for me. I was suddenly struck with inspiration: Aston could buy nothing for himself, but... Asking him to excuse me while I tarried just a moment longer, I return to the piles of clothing briefly, picking up an item I had noticed in my earlier browsing. It was a simple linen vest, black with an attractive woven pattern in a cream color, perfectly suitable for a man. I divide everything in my coin bag that I have left, then add a single of the larger and more valuable gold coins to the pile. Holding them out to Eve, I thank her formally for the clothing and her hospitality, adding "Your work is truly beautiful and is a credit to your craft. Would you allow me to purchase this as well?" I don't know if Aston will go for it, strict with the rules of his bargain as he was, but this technically wasn't breaking any. I hold out the money.

Eve smiles and closes my hand again around the coins. "You are a very kind person, Gala, but Aston cannot. Food, yes. Luxuries, depends, but if the guards see him wearing a new vest..." She gives a sad smile. "I wish the lord could meet you, he might change his mind about You."

My jaw is set. "And I wish I could meet him." I'd give him a piece of my mind, all right. I don't understand why Aston is treated so poorly for doing something so simple. I turn my smile to him. "I'm sorry Aston. I tried." But the task at hand is to get enough food for a trip of indeterminate length. I don't have the first clue about what sort of food to bring. I wonder if this is because I am inexperienced with travel? But I feel instinctively that this is not the case. Faint memories, maybe only daydreams, of lonely campfires burning away through the night... The need to lay low, stay quiet, pack light... And always, the Hunger, dominated and drowned out by the Words and the Light, the peace, strength and discipline that I had ventured out to find... I snap myself out of this reverie before my hosts can become alarmed. "What sort of food would you bring?"

"Well, certainly not biscuits!" Aston walks down the food lane of the market, pointing to stalls on either side. "Jerky is good because it won't spoil, but it's not very nourishing. You'll need some fruit, but it won't last longer than four days. You'll need a water skin or something to boil water in, which peeves me is not included in the exile bundle... flint and steel... something sweet?"

I feel the corners of my mouth twitch, and before I can stop it I'm laughing full on. I laugh and laugh, uninhibitedly, tears threatening to roll down my cheeks. The Exile Bundle? Like I won a prize at a raffle in some fair. His choice of words, and his sincere irritation with those Powers That Be that sent me on my merry way without a word of explanation and a damn rucksack, is endlessly amusing to me.

Aston tries to keep talking, but is caught up in the contagiousness of the outburst. "What'd I say?" He suddenly glances around nervously and with the growingly familiar pressure, he pushes us ahead. "Sorry, the wool vendor back there is not a fan of mine, simply for being a fan of yours. Remember, you're going to have to carry your food. So try to pick filling items, okay?"

As suddenly as it began, I choke off the laugh. Something feels strange. I shouldn't be laughing in the company of men. In fact, I shouldn't be getting this familiar with one, or be seen walking and speaking with him in public. Something about it has rubbed me entirely the wrong way, and I have no idea what. I wasn't about to answer his charity with coldness, however, so I suppress the uncomfortable feelings and turn to him again. "But I don't understand. Why waste energy packing food at all?"

"Unless you are a proficient hunter or immortal, you need food to live. Just long enough to get to the next castle. You can walk directly to the closest castle to stock up before venturing towards Avalon if you want, might be wise. Save you a day's worth of supplies."

"But it's autumn. All I need is a knife. Columbine and yarrow roots are soft enough to eat now, not to mention the primrose hips all over the place. Those are good to help stop bleeding too as long as you don't use too much—you can put someone out for days that way. And you can always chew on sassafras leaves, or marjoram if you haven't eaten for a few days, they both make a good anesthetic and will help numb you somewhat. That with marigold roots for the dizziness, and you can go without food for days if you're focused enough. I'm sure there are horse chestnut trees in the woods, they taste completely awful but it will keep you alive if you crack them open in a fire first-that and acorns obviously. Besides, I can build a pretty good squirrel trap, and they always have more nuts and things buried nearby..."

Seeing Aston's face I add, "…But I could also just bring some apples instead."

"I've vastly underestimated you." Aston is smiling at the sudden revelation of my knowledge and remembering. "Alright then, if you're confident those things will be able to be found around here, we don't have to bother with food, but there is one more thing that we must acquire."

That's one thing I didn't consider. I wasn't familiar with this terrain. I couldn't even be certain that I waked here myself. I turned to pay for a few day's worth of apples, some small hard pears and a tough chunk of bread to be on the safe side while I ask, "And what might that last thing be?"

Aston walks us to a far corner of the market. There is actually a stone shop set into the wall here; it's a bindery. Aston picks up one of the small, leather-bound notebooks. "To help you remember." He hands it to me for purchase for one of the largest coins. He pulls out of his pocket a hand whittled stick of graphite. "Pocket quill. Just sharpen it when it gets dull. It'll get on your hands, but it's safe."

I look down at the notebook he's given me. "I don't understand-how will this help me remember?"

"Write in it, keep a journal. It'll help you remember what you've remembered so far. fI you also used to write a journal, and even if you didn't, it'll spark new things. Writing is the best thing for the mind. A few others I've helped have also written me, but I don't ask for or expect this."

"You keep in contact with the others? How many of us have there been?"

"Not all of them keep in touch, very few actually."

"So... You don't know what happened to the rest of them." I look down. I wish I knew what was ahead in my own immediate future. "Have you ever seen any of them again after saying goodbye?"

"No news is good news right? I send them off well-stocked and with a good heading. I give them the best chance I can but more importantly I give them hope. No one else here cares for them, save Eve and one other. I've seen the dark side of what it does to people."

I didn't want to think of what that 'dark side' looked like-the thing that made everyone here so afraid of me. "You say there is one other?"

"The leather vendor. She was a close friend of my mother's, so..." Aston smiles but his eyes betray him. "So we're close is all... She's always been so supportive..."

"The woman I bought the sheath from?"

"Aye."

"Supportive? What do you mean by that?" There's clearly more than he's saying, and I don't want to pry but I am curious.

"Well—the other merchants—I think a lot of them secretly agree with the work that I do to help the Abandoned. I think some of them wish that they could help, too."

"But they don't have the restrictions that you do." I had seen the looks certain of the others had been giving him in the market. That and his clothes... Not to mention the hardship of getting supplies. "They don't suffer for it like you do." I tried to remember the face of the woman stretching leather. I took a shot in the dark, wanting to know more. "She and your mother, are they still friends?"

Aston's eyes betray his stoic face. "...Yeah... sure... I mean... heh, she hasn't seen her in a while, but..." he shrugs "Still friends. And the deal I made is mine and mine alone. I'm the only one ever to come forward with opposing feelings. I'm sure more feel sorry for the Abandoned than say so." Aston keeps walking as a few overhear the word.

Something is off. I haven't seen him this rattled since we met. What is unsettling him? And something else has been bothering me since he started helping me. I had kept my questions to myself, grateful for his help, whatever the reason for it, but I need to know. I stop walking in the middle of the street, put a hand on either of his shoulders and turn him to look me in the face. The crowds surge around us like we were a stone sticking out of a stream. "Aston, you never told me why you do this. You have no more reason to trust me than anyone else here—how can you be so sure that I'm not as 'dangerous' as everyone else thinks I am? Why did you make the deal? What are we to you that you give up so much?"

"..."

Aston's tone is soft, the first time his voice has dropped its charisma and optimism.

"...My mother was Abandoned. She disappeared for two weeks. When they found her, it was like no one ever knew her. No one helped her. No one tried. They wouldn't even let me see her... she… the reason people are afraid of the Abandoned is because they go mad. The reason they go mad, believe me, is because they are people who are suddenly feared, suddenly shunned, suddenly cast out and separated from the ones they love. My mother wa-..." Aston's head reels back in emotion. He looks around at the people with increasingly cold eyes. "Not here." His tone so icy his breath almost fogs. He glares at the exit archway. After a breath so he doesn't channel any anger at you, his teary steeled eyes meet yours. "Do you have everything that you need?"


	3. Conflict

**Disturbance in the Marketplace**

* * *

Aston's eyes are cold and direct, but they're not drilling into me. His anger is directed radially. "Gala? Do you need anything else?"

For a moment I can't speak. My heart is breaking for this man. I'd never once seen his eyes look like this, not once as he'd guided me through the square, protecting me from the same fate as his poor mother. It was so unfair. I could almost understand their hatred of me, an unpredictable stranger. But she had been one of their own. And now that she was-wherever she had ended up-the way they treated her son was even worse. My eyes fill with tears. This is why he helped me? He took it upon himself to repay the sins of the town? Almost as soon as I feel such heartbreaking sympathy it's replaced with anger. I look down at the bandage on his hand and I glare. What a perfect and appropriate reminder. I don't know who scarred me but I know who scarred him and it's making me furious. Unbidden, another scene flashes in my head:

A darkened room, rays of bright sunlight sneaking in around the corners of a heavy cloth hung in a window. Lit by candle, hushed voices hanging in the air. A sickroom. The pallid sweat streaked face of a young man on the bed, clearly in pain. The worried and grim expression on the face of a healthy looking young woman, standing nearby with a basin of water while I change the man's bandages, covering the sores on his body, face set and hands busy while I work in silence. Thick bundles of herbs hung on the lintel of the door, put there for superstition as much as anything else. A Mark, declaring the house unclean. I see the looks they give this woman as they hurry past her door, avoid her in the street, punishing her because she stayed by the side of the tainted one instead of leaving him to die, like so many others did. I remember the fear and hatred on those people's faces, and how that once made me feel, though I was spared her ostracism. I remembered hating secretly that I would give my life in service to those who could be capable of such cruelty. As soon as it comes, the vision is over. My eyes don't leave his bandaged hand as I glare, seething, saying nothing.

Aston, aware of me staring at his Mark, moves it behind his back. At the same time he places his other hand on my shoulder. The softness has returned to his voice, anger replaced with sad strength. "Gala... it's not your fault... It's not the fault of any of the dozens I've helped. I'll tell you more outside if you wish, but I, for one, d'like to get a breath of fresh air from this selfish place, aye?"

I look up into his eyes and see the change. I want to be angry but I reason that I don't have the right to be more angry than he is. I take a steadying breath, a little ashamed that I let my feelings show instead of being stronger than him, the one who had suffered. He is the one who deserved to be indulgent with his darker feelings, not I. I smile and apologize for my reaction. "I'm sorry about that, Aston." My voice is quiet and calm now.

"No need. Thanks for the care." Aston gives a reaffirming shoulder squeeze, then lets out a heavy breath. "What else do you need for your journey?" Aston scratches his forehead with his thumb. His comfort in the market has clearly dropped.

"Aston."

The stern voice startles me and I see a flare of a similar reaction in Aston's eyes. He closes his eyes and breathes slowly: he knows the voice. Over his shoulder I recognize the face of the woolsmith.

"Aston!" Aston gives the slightest head twitch in order to shake the anger from his eyes.

"Loke. What a pleasant surprise."

"Aston, what are you doing?"

"Simply showing my friend around the market, the—"

"Save your breath, Aston. I know she's Abandoned." A few more faces turn and follow Loke's accusing point to you. Aston waves his hand slightly in an attempt to persuade any kind of reaction from you.

"You want to know how I know?" Loke's finger now swings to Aston's face. "Because you don't have the self-respect to associate with anyone else after-" Aston doesn't move, but Loke reacts as if he had drawn a blade.

"What's the matter, Loke? Guilt got your tongue? Is it the shame of how you've treated people you used to care about or the shame of knowing you're picking a fight with someone who's lost plenty"" Aston turns calmly and hooks your shoulder , parading you in front of him.

"Where do you think you're goi-" The sharp sound of a rough grab on canvas. The soft whistle of a knife coming out of its sheath. I find yourself at arm's length from Aston, he's turned again and looks to have punched Loke in the sternum. His arm is half extended, fist still flat against Loke's chest, holding but not using a 5-inch knife. Loke has noticed. Aston has not noticed the guards closing in.

"Loke, you know the consequences for my guests getting out of hand. You know what I've been through. So you must know very well that I have nothing to lose and will gladly defend the life of my guest from swine like you." Loke's satisfied eyes seem to suggest that he alerted the guards ahead of time. Aston's tear-framed eyes do not tear away as he shoves Loke hard, knocking him back. The guards reach out to seize you both.

There isn't enough time. There just isn't time, dammit. Everything has happened much too fast. I have exactly one second to keep a terrible thing from happening. I see only Aston's face-are those tears? There is nearly a smile on his face as he threatens Loke's sternum with his blade. I've seen that face before-a martyr before the fire. In my head I hear recited the simple words of a promise I once made: "Ona de vakha tinechor maana". No harm will come to the flock. He will not die here. So help me God, I will not let that happen.

I raise one arm, palm forward, fingers outstretched in a rigid stance. I feel the warmth gather in my fingers, collecting to a point of heat in my palm as I gather and concentrate my focus and my will. "Coinha na i' to ran quenat vala teir!" I shout the words. A prayer of protection-the manifestation of my will-a temporary, physical barrier. A pulse-looking merely like a heat shimmer temporarily distorting the air-issues from my hand and hits both men. I can't say what exactly they felt-I had never received the effects of this shield on my own body. In the second instant I windmill my outstretched palm and turn to face the pair of guards closest to us. My kiai splits the morning air. "ie' na pilin' nashareth!" Another pulse. Where my first prayer was a shield, this was an arrow. It could not wound, it would not stop more than one or two bodies in motion, but the two men hit their knees.

I had not stopped to think, my body had merely reacted to the imminent harm threatening Aston. My actions had bought us only a few precious seconds worth of time. Only one thought animates me-He must not be harmed. I will not let him die here. More guards were coming. If the guards get their hands on either of us, we won't be spared. Even if I can distract them long enough, he won't run but will stand to defend me. They'll kill him in the fight or as punishment in the aftermath after I'm dead. In an instant, I size everything up. Aston's hand still held a blade to Loke's chest, but even if he has time to use it it will only give the guards enough cause to deal with the disturbance as quickly as possible-which means we'll never leave this square. I can't let him kill Loke-which is why his body was also protected by my prayer. I have only my few gifts and a knife. I need the cover of confusion and panic of the crowd. I'll give them what they fear. I rip the cloth from my neck and draw my own blade. I need to create a huge disturbance-and I need to give them a reason to hesitate to give me time to do that. I don't know how strong the protection on his body is and I don't know how long it'll last-it is all I can do to give him the best chance. I can't risk an attack. I'll use their fear as a shield. They won't let him leave this market unpunished-but they'll sacrifice him to an enemy they cannot control. One who can attack without being touched. I have only once chance if we are to leave this place alive.

My mind races three moves ahead. So much is at stake and so much can go wrong. I send off one more prayer. Please, guide me, let me fulfill my duty. Let me protect him. In one movement, I grab the arm that was shielding me from Loke and pull hard, shouldering into Loke's chest, knife pointed towards him. I whisper the words and for a moment the blade carries the same power that hit the guards. It is much more powerful when I deliver it myself than when I send it through the air. My blade cannot cut him because of his protection but he will not be able to move. The crowd would only see a knife drawn and their neighbor fall. In the follow-through of my shove, one hand still on Aston's outstretched arm I spin and whirl around until I stand behind him. I bring my blade to Aston's throat. My other palm I raise and point toward the densest point in the crowd. I only need them to see the Mark. Just one scream. Anything to touch off the panic I need. Then I can make my move. Then we just may have a chance. God, please.

Aston is a willing captive. He's either playing the part well or genuinely startled by my reaction.

"Gala, you need to leave. Please." People in the crowd are backing away. They seem to be more frightened by my use of magic and sudden outburst than my Mark. My outstretched hand, however, makes them part like the sea.

"Gala, please don't fight..." I recognize now that the worry in Aston's voice comes from fearing for my safety. The crowd holds a healthy perimeter away from us. Through the gaps in the crowd I can see the men on the balcony. Some are shouting orders, ranking officers: others just stare at me. There are dozens of guards forming. I remember the wall of men. Aston's tone drops to that of a hint. "There're archers along the wall. That's the larger danger. I can still protect you if we're arrested..."

I don't move my head or take my narrowed eyes off the crowd. I answer through my teeth. "If we're arrested, you'll die." It isn't a question.

"Gala, I've already given my life to help you, you have so much more to live for." Guards start to move through the crowd from the left and front. Aston speaks hurriedly and worriedly. Six guards reach the edge of the circle.

"Girl! You are outnumbered and under arrest. Step away from the merchant!" The guard's voice wavers slightly under the point of my palm. I nod.

"I'll get you out alive." Aston speaks under his breath so that only I can hear, and holds up his now unbandaged hand. The knife has vanished to wherever it had been procured. He now addresses the gathering crowd of guards in a booming voice that is weighted with confidence and authority.

"Be advised: I have a decree for both of us for arrest without harm!" The guards, puzzled at either the idea of the decree or the fact that Aston is vouching for someone who has him at knife-point, hesitantly lower their weapons as their minds turn.

What is he plotting? I realize I don't care. "Shut up!" He is out of his damn mind if he thinks anyone is dying for me-especially him. Damn his deal, damn my safety, damn the rule and damn the promises I've made. All that matters is that he keeps living. I don't care what he thinks.

"They'll never let you go now. And I seriously doubt they intend to let me live, either." Whether or not this was true, I need him to stop thinking he could save me by giving himself up. That wasn't an option. I had sworn to protect. I would die before I failed. But the situation was bad. Since Aston had spoken it was now clear that we were together, that he knew me and was responsible for me. I had hoped they might spare him if they thought I had turned on him. So much for my knife ruse. Now they could figure out I was buying time. I hadn't gotten the reaction I had hoped for. My plan is vague and there are way too many variables but I have no choice.

"They won't arrest us. I will die fighting."

I pause for a moment so that he can hear the truth in my words. It's no bluff.

"If you want me to live, you help me run." I just have to get him outside. Then I can think of a way to keep him going; for now I just have to get him outside the gates. I think I know of a way to keep them from following. I have to make them believe that Aston's actions and my own are separate-otherwise we would be treated as two fugitives, working together. They would follow us and bring us both to justice, if only to rid the town of the threat. But if I could make them believe that he was my hostage, or the victim of my violent insanity...they had sacrificed him to the cause of the Abandoned once, if they thought it would save the town they would do it again. But I don't like what I'm going to have to do. There are only moments left. I have to know that he will run for the gates when the time comes. It's too late for diplomacy. "Do you want me to live? Will you help me run? Quickly, Aston."

Aston replies three ways simultaneously: one was the soft whistle of steel, the second was the weight of a blade being placed in my outstretched hand, the third was a single word: "Eve". I am suddenly aware of Aston before me, a blade spinning around his right palm, his bare left hand holds a ceramic vial. I barely felt him move. His Mark is showing. Double branded, the mark of a soldier's general over the brand of a thief. That explains his tone with the guards.

He stands poised against a backdrop of guards that had not yet come to their senses. Our eyes lock and I see a man, knowing he's about to die, looking at something worth dying for. As if he were an older, more capable son, looking at his own mother. "Fast." More importantly, "Don't look. Now." then Aston is gone. The guards to our left grunt as they receive an unwelcome shot to the body. My mind echoes his words as I turn away. Then, everything happens so quickly that I only perceive it in pieces. There is a splash followed by a deafening, wet bang. The people I turn towards erupt in fear of something behind me, their faces, brightly lit in yellow, are agape and rendered in detail matching their horror. A few sparks fly overhead. Pandemonium ensues. I get swept up in a torrent of people. Over the screams I'd hoped for earlier, I hear a guard yell, almost comfortingly, "SEIZE HIM!"


	4. Disaster

**Disaster**

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****Hey guys, Gala here. I apologize for those of you who have been reading the chapters as they came out, as I did a bit of reorganizing between chapters 3 and 4. I cut 3 short a little early and appended it to the beginning of 4, meaning that if you had already read 3, this is going to be a bit of a reread. Never fear, the new material is a few paragraphs down. If you're reading all of this through for the first time, ignore this message entirely. That is all, carry on!

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The fleeing crowd jostles me along but I feel numb. How did I let him get out of my sight? I didn't expect him to do this. GODDAMMIT! I begin to turn back to find him but if he is trying to draw the guards away then sticking around will only make him more reckless. He has to survive. I won't leave without him. I'm sure he won't let himself be captured until he's reasonably sure I'm safe. I just need to get to him before then. I was prepared for action but now I'm completely lost. Everything is slipping out of control quickly but I won't leave here without him. If I do he's dead. He told me to find Eve. Will he meet me there? At the very least, maybe she can help me find him again. She knows him, maybe she knows where he would run? If I can just get lost in the crowd long enough to regroup, I'll find him, get him out of here somehow, and worry about the rest later. Her shop is not far. I remember the way and retrace my steps, listening for signs of him in the crowd, trying to figure out his position but the guards are scattering in different directions. I don't think they know where he is. I'm praying he's alive, praying that the protection I gave him holds when I slam open the door to the shop.

"EVE!"

I accidentally run into Eve, who was worriedly making her way to the tent door to see what all the fuss was about. She laughs a little at the jostle and clings to me to remain upright. On the bust, the top inspired by me is half cut and half marked. The thread carefully hung near the loom. Eve looks up into my face.

"Eve!" I grab her by both arms. "You have to help me—it's Aston—I think he's trying to do something stupid—"

I'm out of breath, and I just realized I'm in tears.

"I have to get him out of the castle. They discovered me, and now the guards are on him, and I made everything worse..." my voice is a sob now. "Help me save him, Eve." I look at her, not a clue how this little woman can help but desperate for anything.

Eve spends most of my outburst hushing me down. Her hands pat my face. She calmly reaches across my arms and takes the knife from my hand.

"Aston idn't in trouble, dove." She holds the knife, a fighting knife, up to show me the hand carved handle with his Mark whittled into it.

"We must move quickly." Eve is anything but quick. Her tiny shuffle towards the back is determined nonetheless. In the back of the shop there is an old, old door. Eve had been very careful with her choice of shop location.

"Help me, dove." Eve makes a token effort with an iron bar to pull the braces off the door.

I am confused, but I gently get her to step aside as I heave on the bars. It's not an easy task because of my own slight frame, but with a groan they shift. I might have been able to move them easier with my gift but I'm saving as much energy as possible. I already feel the effects of the little I've done so far. I look to her when the task is done, waiting for her guidance.

While I was working, Eve closed the curtain to the back. Eve fetches me a new scarf for my Mark and hands me a tight, prepared travel bundle. It feels no different from the exile pack, save the nicer green cloth wrapping. Nearby, the sounds of shuffling armor grow louder. She drapes another, similar green cape over my shoulders with a word of safety and a kiss. She pulls the door open for me.

I hesitate. "Where does this lead?"

I look through the door and see a mound of earth: the dirt moat around the castle. To my right I can see the other side of the Abandoned hall. To my left, the wall stretches a fair distance before cornering out of sight. Worn paths leading up to the mound suggest this used to be a merchants' entrance before the dirt moat was installed. The door certainly looks old enough. Over the top of the wall, I can hear guards shouting for order. The forest is rather close on this side of the castle.

"You want me to leave?" Does she think I'll just run?

"What about Aston? Please, he doesn't have much time, there are too many guards for him to outrun, I have to find him!"

"Aston idn't in danger. He has a plan, dove. He's been duing thisa long time. Not always chased, but hekin handle things. He cares about you only. I know cuz he care for me too." She fixes my cape around me, always pruning. "He's done so much good for so long. His mother'd have been proud."

I look into this woman's face. I have to decide whether or not to trust her-to believe that Aston will be safe if I do what she's asking me. "Will I see him again if I go out this way now? Will he follow?"

Eve shows no sign of any thought that things may not be ok. She is not forcing me, but it is clear that Aston was very clear to her that this is what he wants. It is also clear that Eve is not privy to Aston's half of the plan. She trusts him nonetheless. "He's still taking care of you, dove." Out in the square, adrenaline levels have started to drop and some of the riotous citizens are reorganizing, helping the trampled. The guards and soldiers are reorganizing as well.

I look for a long moment, hesitating. I don't have time to think, but I don't know what to do. I'm so torn. Eve really believes that Aston will be okay- but she didn't see his face the last moment I saw him, before he melted into the crowd. Nothing to lose. The face of a man who truly believed he would not see nightfall. Well, that made my choice clear. I put a hand on Eve's arm, hoping to somehow communicate with a simple touch all of my gratitude.

"I'm sorry."

It isn't going to end this way. I don't wait for a reply. I turn and dash back into the street. The going is more difficult now that the crowds are beginning to disperse- I can't risk being seen. I keep my head down, pull the cloak tightly around my body, and above all listen to the sounds of subsiding chaos- desperate for any hint, any sound to tell me which way to run. I just have to find him.

Eve calls my name as loudly as her soft voice allows her, but to no avail. On the street, a few guards are helping corral the final panicking citizens, and seem to pay little attention to me for the moment. Many of them did not actually see who started the commotion. Apparently an archer did. An arrow comes screaming down from the wall, burying itself into the back of an unfortunate citizen standing six feet in front of me to the left. A grievous miss for someone shooting from just the top of the wall behind me. I wheel around to see Aston fighting the guard, having pinned him against the low rim of the outer wall with a tackle that came not a moment too soon. My heart skips a beat. He's alive. His last punch sends the archer reeling over the wall of the castle. I hear his scream cut violently short, but I cannot hear Aston's shouting. Our eyes lock, and he points animatedly outside the castle wall. He breaks eye contact and looks up to see several pursuing guards bearing down on him from the right, who could not match his armorless agility up the stairs. Up and behind me, Aston points to another archer to be mindful of before throwing one knife and engaging the guards. I realize that this was the only archer on this side of the castle, and Aston would have needed to dispose of him to give me a clear path, had I taken the escape route that Eve offered me.

In a moment I once again size up our positions. Aston has an advantage because they cannot come at him more than one at a time, but he is far outnumbered and he won't be able to hold them forever, though he seems a very capable fighter. But before I make a move I turn and face the citizen who has been shot. My heart is broken that he would be caught in the cross-fire. There is little I can do, I don't even know that he is alive but it is unconscionable to leave him bleeding in the street. I can't approach him but in the space of a moment I hold my palm level, concentrate and draw up, removing the arrow shaft without causing further damage, then draw my fingers together to a point to bring the skin together. He isn't truly healed; I brought the torn edges together but I can do nothing to close the wound. It is the least I can do for the poor soul. I whisper a hasty prayer before turning and running headlong for the wall. Aston had not yet been overwhelmed because the guards have chosen to stay bunched together rather than split up and attack him separately, meaning he is only being attacked from one side. The other half of the wall is clear. I am dashing for the stairs that will bring me up that side of the wall, to get to Aston before they can flank him. My head swims and my vision blurs but I press on-I've used my gifts too much already. But I need to hold on. Not much farther now. I keep running, glancing back to the other archer, prepared to pull any arrows that he fires off course. No one else is getting hurt.

Aston's throwing knife buries itself in the shoulder of the closest guard. He surges forward and knees his opponent backward into another. A third guard scrambles over and swings a sword. Aston grabs his arms and levers the guard over his shoulder by his hips, throwing him onto the stones behind him. Aston kicks his helmet off, but suddenly stumbles back. The arrow reflects off the magical barrier around Aston, knocking him back against the stone wall. The guard at his feet slashes at his legs, but Aston steps on his wrist. To Aston's right, the first guard swings his arm, returning the knife Aston had lent him. Aston deflects it downwards from his face, but it catches him hard in the side. This time I hear Aston scream. The one wielding Aston's knife follows up with a bodily shove to the shoulders just as the guard at Aston's feet lifts his arms.

Aston's face widens as he vanishes over the wall.


	5. Injury

**Injury**

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Hey folks, quick note. My penname has changed, so let's all of you fans try not to freak out, okay? [All three of you ;) ] I have always gone by Gala, my contributing author is Kanoa, but it looks like I'll be primarily the one updating and such, so I changed the penname to reflect that. I know, no one actually cares, but I didn't want to confuse anyone.

I am slowly going through and fixing the second person slips that some of you have been kind enough to point out to me. Thanks again! The update got a bit delayed due to that bitch Sandy effing with our internet connection, but here you go!

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Unable to contain myself I scream, but it still isn't loud enough to cover the thud, like a stone hitting sand. The guards look down for a moment, then move on to the castle corner to check the archer's fate.

My blood runs cold. No. Oh god, no. This can't have happened. He can't be dead. Not him. Not the one person in my entire life who has ever tried to protect me. Everyone has always needed me, kept me guarded away, and I had lived a life of faithful service but this man had tried to take care of me, to keep me safe, had cared about what happened to me and regarded me as something other than a living sacrifice. I can't feel my feet as I run. I can't feel anything. It happened too fast for me to stop it. I couldn't save him. Why? I'm praying against hope, wishing the impossible, that if I could only get there and find him breathing I would give literally anything. But he was so high up...

I hardly notice a confused Eve switch directions as I rush through. I feel sick, like I'm floating as I pass through the gates and down the stone steps where I first saw Aston. I briefly notice the archer's body as I fly past the castle walls. He is not well. I find the place where I think Aston fell behind the dirt moat, but he is not there. There is a red bare spot where grass used to be. I do, however, notice a whittled, graphite shard stuck into the ground. There is another by my foot, bloodied. Following the line, a final one lies several feet behind me, connected by a thin trail of red, winding towards the forest.

I follow the trail, feeling sick.

The leaves have parted as though something came through, dragging. I listen but there's nothing moving. How could he have come this far? Does this mean that he didn't perish upon impact? Could he have managed to crawl a few yards before succumbing to his injuries? Or did one of the guards already collect his body? No, no one could have reached him before I did. My panic is quickly devolving into hysteria at my inability to find him. I know that this doesn't make any sense, as all I expect to find is a corpse.

I'm turning around in place, unsure of where to search or what to do, when an inconsistency in the scarlet and gold vibrancy of the early autumn forest catches my eye. There's a dingy navy gray splotch amid the leaves, low down by the base of a tree. It's the back of Aston's jacket.

I find Aston against a tree, not fifty feet into the woods. He was holding a knife, but he's dropped it. His right hand is pinned in his left armpit. As I approach slowly, suffocating with dread, a sound reaches my ears: a raspy, wheezing breath. His eyes are screwed shut and his head has fallen back against the trunk of the tree, and his chest is laboriously rising and falling.

My breath catches in my throat. He is alive. I cover the last few feet between us at a dead run, unable to believe what I'm seeing. He's alive. I drop to my knees before him and put my arms around his shoulders as gently as I possibly can. I need to prove to myself that what I'm seeing is real. I was so sure that he was lost. I drop everything that I had been holding in and forget every ounce of decorum and openly sob. I had never felt more grateful. I send up the most fervent and sincere prayer of thanks I had ever made, eyes squeezed shut, crying unreservedly.

Aston stops any attempt at moving. He laughs sharply and wetly. He puts his left arm on my shoulder blade. I can feel an odd hump on his right upper back. He breathes very deliberately, in pained vibrato.

He's biting a stick like a horse bit. He's sweating and drowsy, but he looks exceedingly relieved to see me.

"Gu-u! Mhu..." he spits the stick out. "Gala, thank God." His glassy eyes glaze with exhaustion. "I'm getting too old for this." He coughs a chuckle.

From his position against the tree I can see Aston is holding his right hand under his left armpit to hold it in place. His right side has a deep gash deflected by his rib. Aston has done nothing for this. His right leg is clearly broken on the upper half. His left foot is twisted oddly. It's amazing he crawled this far. His right eye is bloodshot. I can see right away that he landed hard on his right side. He is in a lot of pain, his face is covered in dirt, save vertical tracks under his eyes. He exhaustedly says something in the local tongue and tries to sit up as if he wants to move farther from the castle.

There are a hundred things I want to say and ask but he is in pain now. I already know that he has at least one broken leg, and I can tell from touching him that he has more than one broken rib. I'm also sure that his right arm is dislocated, and probably his foot. Those will be the most painful ones to fix. But I am possibly most worried about his ribs. I suspect that one of the broken ones have punctured his lungs. That will have to be the first thing I address, but I need to slow his heart beat first. Now that I am more calm, I speak a few words to him soothingly.

"Seere. E' esta. Harwa quel."

I know that to someone who has just suffered a traumatic injury, comfort is more important than care initially. It will be easier to treat him if his breathing and heart rate are slower.

At my prompting, Aston breathes slowly with me, nodding consent. His facial expression is so strong I can practically hear his voice: Triage it is then. He reaches for his mouth bit again. His breathing slows as he moves it to his mouth.

"Not part of the plan, by the way."

He rests the stick in his mouth comfortably. He's been on the receiving end of this before. His trust in me rises almost palpably. Carefully around his bit he expresses that he wants to move farther and points to his crooked left foot. He closes his eyes to hide the shine of fear. He nods and opens his eyes. As relaxed as he'll probably ever be for the moment, definitely ready.

If he is prepared then I'm ready. I've done this before but it is never easy, especially to do it to someone you care about. I'm about to cause him a lot of pain. The trick was not to hesitate, to do it before the patient has a chance to think about it and not to stop when they start screaming. I plant my body facing him, one leg bent at the knee, and the other stretched along the ground parallel to his other leg for balance and added leverage. I take a deep, steadying breath, set my face, then without a further warning I grab the twisted foot with both hands and yank once sharply away from his body, not letting go when he screams and pulling until I feel the click, the ankle released from the unnatural position at which it had been resting and snapping back to the correct place.

The bit quiets Aston's voice, but not his face. He had watched me up until the second I pulled. I can tell he restrained his head and back from arching in reflex to the pain. His cooing muffle is enough to reassure himself and me that all is okay. He grabs the bit from his mouth. "I want to be out of sight of the castle before we continue." Returning the bit, he slides his left leg under himself, grabs the pant of his right leg the best he can, takes a breath and forces himself upright against the tree. Amazingly, the idiot tries a little shuffling hop before full out collapsing to his left side in agony. I know that the last thing in the world that he needs right now is to be moved, but I realize that this is really the second to last thing, because the worst thing that could happen right now is for us to be spotted from the castle. Supporting him and allowing him to use me as a crutch, we manage to make it another hundred feet into the forest, just far enough to put a shrubby little thicket between us and any prying eyes on the wall. His face is soaked and pale. He has the satisfied look of a man that just did something excruciatingly stupid.

I have to suppress a smile at his absurd look of self satisfaction. I'm relieved that he appears to be as vital as he is, but he is quickly approaching the very limits to how far bravado and determination alone can take him. He can't shrug off the kinds of injuries he's received, and it's starting to show on his face. I get serious again as I kneel by his crumpled form and turn him over as gently and softly as I possibly can, which still can't prevent his wince of pain. "If we need to move, I will move you. But you are not to try to get up again without my help, do you understand? You'll only make it harder for me to help you." I carefully arrange him flat on his back, legs straight out, arms at his sides. I need to make a decision. I can reset his shoulder now to get it over with, or I can stabilize his other injuries and make him comfortable again before I try it so that he can rest immediately after. It is highly likely that he'll pass out when I do it, and it'll be easier to treat his other injuries if he's conscious. One look at his sheet-white face makes my decision for me; he just can't handle that again just yet. He's sweating and shivering-I have to keep him conscious for now. I let my memories and my instincts take over, finding that the treatment for each of his injuries are already present in my head. I already know what to do-I just need to keep from panicking and allow my knowledge and instinct to guide my hands. First, I need to see the extent of his injuries. I carefully undo the closure on his vest and roll up the hem of his shirt, looking at him with the practiced eyes of a doctor-but I need to stifle a gasp when I see his bare chest. He already has dark, heavy bruising completely covering his right side. And I was right-broken ribs. I'm worried especially when I see how he is breathing. His chest rises and falls erratically, his breathing rapid and shallow. "Aston, can you try to take a full breath, please?"

He does manage to extend his chest fully. It is an extremely painful and extremely slow process. It cannot be said if the erratic movement is from failure or sheer pain. He bites his bit obediently, content with our privacy and content under my care. Questions are far from possible in his mind. He seems relieved at my presence.

I'm relieved-his lungs haven't collapsed, and they aren't punctured if he can draw a full breath. But the multiple breaks are making it difficult for him to breathe. It's as though one side of his ribcage was partially crushed, flattened somewhat by the impact and the pressure is keeping him from breathing normally. There is precious little that most people can do for broken ribs, they generally heal on their own, but his are pressing into his lungs and there is still the risk of a puncture-unless I can relieve the pressure for him. I lean down to his ear and speak softly:

"This will hurt, but it will make it easier to breathe." He closes his eyes. I open my palm once again and hold it flat, hovering just an inch above his naked torso.

"Ready?" Concentrating on the spot where his chest is caved in and bruised, I ever so gently focus my energy and lay my hand with the softest touch against the injury. Then, moving a tiny fraction at a time, I draw my hand up, willing the fractured bones to rise with me, relieving the pressure and putting them into a position where they can be bandaged and allowed to heal. I give the poor man a moment, then ask, "Is it easier now?"

Aston almost laughs when I say that it's going to hurt. He pats me knowingly. He is breathing deeper now, a little color returns to his face. He makes eye contact with me: Keep going.

That was my first priority. I feel enormously relieved, but he isn't out of the woods yet, metaphorically and literally speaking. Now that he can breathe more easily, I can tend to his other injuries. Next on my list is that gash on his side-it doesn't look good. There is dirt and debris in the wound from being dragged and crawling along the forest floor. What do I have in my bag? I take the canvas pack into which I shoved Eve's bundle and open them both, scattering their contents on the ground. I uncork the canteen with my teeth and pour it slowly over the bloody gash, dark and clotted now but still bleeding slightly. I carefully wash away the dirt and dried blood. Once it's clean I can see that it is a relatively clean cut from a blade, but it's a few inches deep. It won't close on its own. Dammit. I still have the tunic that was replaced with Eve's garments. I gently wipe the area clean and dry. I hope Eve of all people thought to pack the one thing I need so badly right now-I poke around in her pack, brows furrowed-until my fingers are pricked on the one thing I was hoping to find. Yes! There is a needle tucked through a spool of fine thread. I thread the needle with practiced care. I've done this many, many times. I only wish I had some alcohol for the needle-and the patient. My fingers are sure and fast as I work over him, concentrating on the task at hand. I normally make tighter, smaller stitches but I don't want them tearing open if we have to move. When I've finished and cut the thread on my teeth, I slide my hand under his back to support him.

"Can you try to sit up for me?"

Aston hooks his left arm all the way around my neck so his elbow is on the back of it. The reaching effort gets him most of the way up, and with a little help he manages. The bit falls loose.

"You've definitely done this before." Somehow there's still a glimmer of optimism in his eyes. And trust. And deep thanks.

"Yes, I have." I answer simply. I avoid looking into his eyes. His look of gratitude has touched off a spark of guilt that I had been ignoring, more preoccupied with tending to him and ensuring that he was okay. I'd been able to avoid thinking about the fact that it was entirely my fault that he was hurt. But there still wasn't time to think about such things- my feelings could wait. He was more important. He is still carrying the makeshift "scarf" I gave him at Eve's. Perfect. It isn't much but it's the correct width and at least it's clean. With him sitting up I wind it tightly and securely around his waist, looping it over one shoulder, protecting the wound and helping to stabilize his ribs. I tuck one end firmly and the bandaging is done. He is still covered in dirt and sweat, however, so I fold over a corner of the bloodied tunic and begin to wipe at his chest and face, still never making eye contact.

Aston's inquisitive but weary gaze makes it clear that he isn't sure if I'm avoiding eye contact because I'm busy or for other reasons, but he gives me the benefit of silence. Too many possibilities, including that he is possibly much more injured than he imagines. As I wipe his face, he spits a little to remove debris from his mouth. Aston does little more than take deep breaths to calm the pain.

With that tended to, the only thing left is to splint the broken leg and reset his shoulder. I won't hold off on the shoulder any longer- once it's back in place the relief will be immediate. But doing it will be excruciating. Gingerly, I help Aston pull the shirt all the way over his head. His arm still hangs uselessly at his side.

"I'm going to put your shoulder back now. You'll have to lie down. I'm sorry, but it's going to hurt terribly. But I promise you'll feel better as soon as it's done." I see him about to reach for his stick again, but instead I fold over a corner of the cloth I've had wrapped around my neck a few times. There's no one to hide my Mark from now.

"Here, bite something that doesn't taste like dirt." I offer him the scarf. "Are you ready?"

Aston reassures me: "This'll be my third time, I know what's coming." Aston gives a short, quick nod and braces himself.

With his back straight, I arrange the injured arm lying straight alongside his body. Taking his wrist in one hand and putting the other one on his bicep, I bend the arm at the elbow straight up, then lay it to the right across his chest. Now for the painful part. Holding his wrist tightly, I turn his arm once more to the left, slowly bending it towards the ground, forming an L shape with his body. He only groans once through the fabric in his teeth, eyes squeezed shut, until after what seems like forever a loud 'click' is heard and his face almost immediately relaxes. He lies on the ground, eyes still closed, breathing heavily, bandaged chest rising and falling. His face has broken out in a sweat again. He's come through the worst; I can finally let him rest. All that's left is to make him as comfortable as possible. "Are you alright? How do you feel?"

Aston enthusiastically spits the cloth out. It dramatically arcs and lands on his chest.

"Oh, you have no idea. Would you hold it against me if I said that I loved that sound?" He laughs, almost embarrassed. "I hope it's not my bones grinding down, but that was the least painful it's ever happened." He sighs. "Thank you, Gala. Thank you." Looking around for the nearest tree, he sits up and pulls himself backwards to lean against it. He looks down at his leg, which is the last injury as far as he can tell. He tests his shoulder and stitches very gingerly before resting his arm comfortably across his lap.

"My God... I did a damn good job... again, not part of the plan."

While taking his arm off his lap again and binding it up in a sling with the unfolded scarf, I look straight down without meeting his friendly smile.

"Please. Don't thank me."

"... Why not? I doubt I would've made it if you hadn't been here. And trust me, I wasn't relying on your triage skills. I guess I'm a blessed man that the last Abandoned I help is practiced in medicine."

I flinch when he says "last". I had been trying to keep the emotion out of my face in order to help keep him calm but my face feels hot. I'm struggling to keep my voice from cracking.

"No, you would never have been hurt this badly if I hadn't been there. If I hadn't reacted the way I did in the market you would have been fine."

Aston's face now drops as well. The word 'last' had been hard for him to swallow too.

"No...no, please. This isn't your fault...not any more than I meant to fall off that wall." He gestures and regrets it immediately. "Things were coming to an end. The opposition, like Loke, were growing less patient. Half the merchants wouldn't sell to me. I knew a... record without incident was not going to last. I asked for this. This deal and the chance to help those who had no help. I made mistakes too...I um... look, you didn't ask to be Abandoned.. or to meet me or come here... and I'm sorry your new world is full of... hate. I pray it's only here at Islingard..."

I shake my head from side to side. The sight of him lying here, broken and in pain, when just this morning he was happy, smiling and offering an apple to a stranger, was all much too much for me to handle. Hot, stinging tears are starting to form in the corners of my eyes and I hate myself for my weakness even further. My voice is angry and bitter.

"I wish to God I had just stayed disappeared, or abandoned, or whatever the hell I was..."

"Hey." He practically barks it. "You stop that. You saved my life just now." Aston sighs. "Please. Just...let..." Aston no longer has all the right things to say. He speaks softly.

"It was my twelfth year... when it happened. So that was... 16 years ago? My mother was Abandoned... she lost everything. She fought just to be with me, her only son. She was deemed dangerous and thrown out of the castle to die..." Aston looks at the ground and trees. "I didn't understand what had happened for years. I was put to work the next year, moved from shop to shop because my apprentice leader rejected me after what happened. I stopped moving around when I got to Eve, not that it was my choice... at eighteen, I joined the guard... that's when I learned about the Abandoned... was forced to watch them, one a season, walk out. Then twice a season. Then every few months. Then every month... I can still see their eyes. Just like my mother's. Just scared and alone. "I went to war once to get away, got my arm in the way of a catapult." He nods to his shoulder. "Got sent home. A week later I was watching the Abandoned leave again. I started to hire people to stand in the woods to give them more supplies, but the army doesn't pay that well. I got caught stealing," He gently turns the back of his right hand and points to a long scar across the back of his base knuckles "once at 21... and again" He shows the brand. "I stole to get attention. There had been more Abandoned than ever and they were becoming more and more reactive. I begged for the chance to help them. I took on full responsibility for anything they did. I would keep them in check and match or take their punishment if I failed. They branded me with the general's seal. It didn't gain the trust of any merchants, but I had authority over the guards. They were not gentle. I got into many, many fights at first. I won most, lost a few," He nods again to the shoulder. "I worked for Eve now, so I could give money and lay low. Eve fed me and allowed me to buy clothes until she got caught selling to a thief. Almost lost everything, except we were lucky that my services were actually appreciated. I started to realize that these people needed more than a larger supply of food or clothing. They needed direction. Not only geographically, but mentally. So thus have been the last eight years of my life. I don't regret a second of it. Now..." He smiles and looks up. "I get to see the fruits of my labor. Besides," the Aston charm returns, "I never did tell you where Avalon is. So hurry up and fix your guide, Gala. You have a life to get back to." He looks up at the tree he's against. "Bring me my pack, I'll start a fire. Hate to say it, but, you're fetching the wood..."

I hang my head and let my braided hair fall in front of my face so he doesn't see the tear fall down my cheek-both for the tragedy of his story and the part that I played in it. "Please-allow me to apologize just once, and I'll never speak of it again."

"You are welcome to speak freely and you are also completely absolved of blame and guilt, Gala." He wants to offer more, but he can only extend his hand.

I hesitate, but I reach out slowly and accept the proffered hand. His hands are much larger than mine and covered in scars-but warm. My voice is a whisper. "I'm sorry." I inhale once, then finally look up into his eyes and smile. "And thank you. When I woke up, I felt so lost and afraid. But you were so kind to me. I don't know what I would have done without you. Thank you."

Aston nods confidently. "Favor well returned."


End file.
